"How modest he is," thought Betty; "he changes the subject so as not to seem to want to be praised." Aloud she answered with shy fluttered earnestness: "Yes--no. I don't know. Sometimes." His lips were grave, but there was the light behind his eyes that goes with a smile. "What unnecessary agitation!" he was thinking. "Poor little thing, I suppose she's never seen a man before. Oh, these country girls!" Aloud he was saying: "This is such a perfect country. You ought to sketch every day." "I've no one to teach me," said Betty, innocently phrasing a long-felt want. The man raised his eyebrows. "Well, after that, here goes!" he said to himself. "I wish you'd let _me_ teach you," he said to her, beginning to put his traps together. "Oh, I didn't mean that," said Betty in real distress. What would he think of her? How greedy and grasping she must seem! "I didn't mean that at all!" "No; but I do," he said. "But you're a great artist," said Betty, watching him with clasped hands. "I suppose it would be--I mean--don't you know, we're not rich, and I suppose your lessons are worth pounds and pounds." "I don't give lessons for money," his lips tightened--"only for love." "That means nothing, doesn't it?" she said, and flushed to find herself on the defensive feebly against--nothing. "At tennis, yes," he said, and to himself he added: "_Vieux jeu_, my dear, but you did it very prettily." "But I couldn't let you give me lessons for nothing." "Why not?" he asked. And his calmness made Betty feel ashamed and sordid. "I don't know," she answered tremulously, "but I don't think my step-father would want me to." "You think it would annoy him?" "I'm sure it would, if he knew about it." Betty was thinking how little her step-father had ever cared to know of her and her interests. But the man caught the ball as he saw it. "Then why let him know?" was the next move; and it seemed to him that Betty's move of rejoinder came with a readiness born of some practice at the game. "Oh," she said innocently, "I never thought of that! But wouldn't it be wrong?" "She's got the whole thing stereotyped. But it's dainty type anyhow," he thought. "Of course it wouldn't be wrong," he said. "It wouldn't hurt him. Don't you know that nothing's wrong unless it hurts somebody?" "Yes," she said eagerly, "that's what I think. But all the same it doesn't seem fair that you should take all that trouble for me and get nothing in return." "Well played! We're getting on!" he thought, and added aloud: "But perhaps I shan't get nothing in return?" Her eyes dropped over the wonderful thought that perhaps she might do something for _him_. But what? She looked straight at him, and the innocent appeal sent a tiny thorn of doubt through his armour of complacency. Was she--after all? No, no novice could play the game so well. And yet--